Desire
by MeghanJinx
Summary: What does Hermione see in the Mirror of Erised?


Desire 

By: Meghan~Jinx

Authors note: ::pauses:: This is stupid I know, but I thought of it at lunch. Well, partly because I was staring out of those great big windows on the side of the cafeteria, longing to go sit under that big wide sky. I hate captivity. ::sings:: I'm like a bird…

The door creaked as I opened it slowly, my hands making smooth quiet movements like a spirit. I had to be silent, lest Filch of Mrs. Norris happened to be prowling about the hallways. At this time of night? Of course. The candle in my hand dancing brilliantly, it's entrancing flame illuminating the darkened way, slicing the night air like a knife through butter.

It was the empty classroom I'd heard the teachers speaking of. I'd heard Harry talk about it too. It was deserted. Nothing special about it. Just a room, that was all.

But what it held inside was _gold_ to the minds of some.

To the well-trained psychologist, it was another measureless, vast window into the elaborate, complex human mind. Yet, when the doctor peers in for himself, the mirror doesn't hold the secrets of the brain, or the secrets of the universe. It held the secrets of their soul's desperate longing.

The Mirror of Erised. 

Every since I'd heard of it, I'd taken to some reading about this supposed mirror. What I found out was as delightfully haunting as it was horribly macabre and twisted.

The mirror was said to hold the secret of your, well, _desires_. Your longings. Some don't even know what they're yearning until they gaze in. Then, some get confused. Some wonder, is it real… or false? Is it really myself in there…or a crude reproduction, taunting me with its success?

Some know what they want. And those are the same ones that are tormented by what they see. It's there…so touchable, so _real_, but at the same time, glass separates us, and yet again, we are back to craving… to dreaming. Or we'll sit by the mirror, pining away, wondering if somehow, hands will reach out and drag us into the looking glass, with it's wonderful troubles and pleasures.

But what's on the other side? Paradise? 

And I, the Exalted Skeptical Hermione Granger, didn't believe one _wonderful_ word of it.

Until I saw it with my own brown eyes. Which is what I was doing, in that room. Looking at the mirror.

I shut the door with a _snap_.

Making my way towards it, I made out shapes of classroom items piled in the far corner. The candle was shaking in my normally firm grasp, I stopped halfway. 

Leaning against the wall, was the mirror. It was a majestic golden hue, ending with two, large clawed feet. It nearly reached the ceiling it was so very tall. And there, etched in the top were the words, _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on woshi. _I gasped. The words themselves held a simple sort of beauty, like a warm breeze, although I did not understand the meaning.

I veered to the left, to a wall adjacent to the mirror. I wasn't prepared to look in _just yet_.

Breathing heavily, and excitedly, I leaned against a wall, where I could see the mirror, but the mirror could not see me.

_What will I see_? That was the question burning painfully in my mind. It swirled around like useless facts that I'd absorbed, not sinking in completely. I was so uncertain, yet at the same time so _curious._

I'd always slightly disliked the story of Pandora. Women are so curious. It's true, of course. But Pandora (the basic embodiment of females) was sent to be a _companion_ to man, not a burden. 

They're so many myths out there. Some I'd like to believe true.

Such as this one. But it was standing before me.

I already knew what I'd see in the mirror. Me, with better grades. I'd be a prefect. Or Head-Girl. I knew it'd be something academic. That was so cliché of my character, but true, very, very true.

I walked towards the mirror.

_What will I see_?

_What will I see_?

I halted. Sharply drawing a breath, I stood directly in front of it.

The breath was drew back in as I gaped at what was presented before me.

No.

No.

It was not I.

_This_ was not my longing.

I'd give a good guess the psychologist could deduct quite a lot from this.

Though, grave as it appeared, it was, in fact, I.

But not the _real _me. This Hermione was tall, and very lean, with a very shapely figure, and long straight, glossy brown hair, that glowed in the light. My teeth were prefect and white, flashing themselves in a smug smirk. I had no regard for schoolwork. I cared little for teachers. All I knew was I was perfect… and wanted everyone to know.

And know they most certainly did! The boys worshipped the very ground my feet walked upon, with my utmost grace, and not the small elephant act I had. The girls were split. Some awed, mindless twits raptly admired me. Some desperately wanted to be my friend… to have a bit of my starry spotlight. A few eyes even glinted green with sickening envy hating my body.

I stood, my mouth hanging open. The shock had washed over my body like a frightening tidal wave.

How could this be real? Was this what I felt? Was I what I tried to intently to convince myself? A real girl. I think sometimes, in my insomnia-filled nights, that behind all the schoolwork obsessions, the impressive brains, the bookworm who hid behind her mind, was a little girl, scared into submission, lurking in the shadows.

The little lost girl who wanted to be loved. 

The little lost girl who wanted a significant other. 

The little lost girl who just wanted a friend.

My mind stuck on the image. It was beautiful.

It was pleading.

It was my evil, selfish, passions. The ones that cared about no one but myself. There was one, and it was I.

My wavering hand reached out and made contact with the glass.

I stroked the smooth, cool surface, eyeing it hungrily. I wanted that image. I wanted it like air underwater. 

I felt my heart sinking as I realized I _did_ want this. I'd been too ashamed of my own daring to admit it.

Then I felt overwhelming fear slip into my body like cold dread. I would be one of the weak, narcissistic people who wasted their lives _craving_ the picture. 

I allowed my hand to slide down as a tear slid coldly down my cheek. I decided I would never utter a word of this to any soul for any reason. My head turned towards the candle, and with a single blow, it burned out, a small ribbon of smoke unfurled from the blackened wick.

"Oh, no…"

Forgetting my sworn vow of silent creeping about, I allowed the bronze candleholder to slip from my sweaty grip, and fall with a loud _thud_, to the floor.

And as the candle departed, and rolled across the hard floor, I turned swiftly on my heels, and streaked from the room, never wanting to return again. 


End file.
